


Team Efforts

by greyathena



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent, The Closer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyathena/pseuds/greyathena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three dead bodies in LA are linked to an investigation in New York, requiring teamwork among some unlikely soulmates (and all the possibilities that accompany alone time out of town for one pair of partners).  Takes place around 2007-2009ish, in a universe with no Fritz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Team Efforts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyasurin_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyasurin_chan/gifts).



> Dear Yuletide recipient: I just couldn't decide which story to write, so this is what happened! I hope you like it and that you have a very merry Yuletide.

The door swung open just as she was closing her hand around a Devil Dog.

"Chief?"

She slammed the drawer on her hand trying to hide the guilty crackle of the wrapper, much too hard to hide her reaction. "Ow! For goodness' sake, Detective, doesn't anybody knock?" She automatically lifted her bruised wrist to her mouth, for all the good it would do.

"Sorry, Chief." As usual, Detective Sanchez didn't look sorry at all for invading her office. They never did. "It's just - Tao got a hit on Pietrovsky's financials. Kind of."

"Kind of?" Brenda removed her wrist from her mouth and pulled off her glasses. "What is a _kind of_ hit?"

"Call from New York. Apparently they've been tracking him for five years."

"Well -" Brenda sputtered as her glasses hit her desk. "What for?"

"You name it, Chief." He flipped the pages of the notepad in his hand. "Money laundering. Russian mob involvement. Money laundering _for_ the Russian mob. Racketeering -"

"If they had a case they'd have brought it at some point in a _five year_ investigation, don't you think, Detective?"

Detective Sanchez shrugged. "Guess he's small potatoes. They don't have him cold on anything and they haven't tied him to anything big."

"And now he's tied to three murders in my jurisdiction, so his potatoes are no longer so small." She rubbed her forehead until the bridge of her nose ached. "In all that time they were tracking him in New York, he never killed anybody? He waits until he gets to LA to suddenly decide to start murdering people who get in his way?"

"Maybe he's a murder tourist." Off her dark look, Detective Sanchez grinned. "Or maybe New York just isn't tracking him as well as they think they are."

"God knows that's possible." She sighed. "Why are you telling me this and not Lieutenant Tao?"

Detective Sanchez's grin, if possible, grew wider. "He's still stuck on the phone with them. Apparently their guy likes to talk."

Brenda pushed her chair back, straightening her skirt as she stood. "Well, he can talk all he wants as long as he stays out of my way. Did New York send over everything they have on Mr. Pietrovsky?"

"They're faxing some stuff over now."

"Let's see if we can speed that up a bit, shall we?" She strode into the murder room, a moment too late, as Lieutenant Tao was already hanging up the phone with an enigmatic look on his face. "Lieutenant Tao -"

He turned fully toward her and she stopped in her tracks. That expression wasn't enigmatic; it was guilty. "Oh no," she said. "What did you do?"

Lieutenant Tao grimaced as the other members of the squad stared at him with looks that varied between amusement and horror. "Captain Ross from New York Major Case seemed to feel that it would be best if two of their top detectives -"

"No," Brenda said.

"- assisted us in following Mr. Pietrovsky's trail -"

"No, no, no!" Brenda repeated. "If their top detectives have been investigating Mr. Pietrovsky for five years, and he still managed to end up blowing people away in Los Angeles with a modified Kalashnikov, then either their top detectives are not very good at their jobs or he is the criminal mastermind of the century!"

"I don't disagree, Chief," Lieutenant Tao said, in a tone that he probably intended to be conciliatory. "Nevertheless, Detectives Goren and Eames will be here tomorrow with copies of the rest of Pietrovsky's files."

"Well, then." Commander Taylor slipped into the room with Sergeant Gabriel behind him; momentarily caught off guard, Brenda paused and ran a hand over her ponytail. "In that case," she continued, recovering herself and turning back to Lieutenant Tao, "we have about eighteen hours to crack this case before they get here."

"Uh, Chief?"

Brenda ignored the interruption. "Lieutenant Tao, please go through everything New York is sending over ahead of the invasion and see if anything matches up with what we've got out here -"

"You got it, Chief."

"- _especially_ the weapons." She paused, thinking. "Detective Sanchez, I seem to recall that one of the witnesses at the second warehouse had recently moved here from Brooklyn -"

"On it," Detective Sanchez replied, already grabbing his jacket.

"Lieutenants Flynn and Provenza -"

"We never did get around to doing our own investigation at the first scene," Provenza put in. "Narcotics cleaned it out pretty good, but -"

"Go back," she said, nodding. "That was the warehouse that led us to Pietrovsky in the first place. Make sure they didn't miss so much as a speck of dust."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sergeant Gabriel -" Did she hesitate? She didn't think so. "You're with me."

"Yes, ma'am."

Commander Taylor intercepted her as she was heading back to her office for her purse. "I don't suppose you'd like me to find out whatever I can about New York Major Case," he said, hovering in her doorway.

Fingers twined in the straps of her bag, Brenda stopped to give him a moment of her full attention. "I would very much appreciate that, Commander Taylor. They're sending us a couple of detectives named . . ." She looked at Sergeant Gabriel, who shrugged, looking like a deer in headlights. Rolling her eyes, Brenda shouted, "Detective Sanchez!"

Sanchez was ripping the top sheet of paper off his notepad as he blew through her office. "Goren and Eames," he said, handing the paper to Commander Taylor.

"Thank you," Brenda called, but Detective Sanchez was practically gone already.

Commander Taylor waved the paper. "Always glad to stand united against the Yankees."

* * *

"Lieutenant Tao has an interesting sense of humor."

Eames frowned over the open file folder she was holding. "Fantastic."

"Somehow Captain got the idea that LA wasn't going to be thrilled about us showing up."

Eames raised an eyebrow at her partner. "Would you be, if they were coming onto our turf?"

Goren shook his head. "It's - weird, isn't? I mean, this guy, all of a sudden . . ."

"Unless it's _not_ all of a sudden," Eames said darkly. "Homicide's not exactly lacking for unsolved body dumps -"

"So he kills here - in the ordinary course of business, I assume - and doesn't leave a trace, but LAPD gets the drop on him after three bodies?"

"LA doesn't have enough evidence to tie him to the murders yet," Eames reminded him. "They're fishing."

"We wouldn't be flying out there if they didn't have a little more than fishing."

"She's ex-CIA."

Goren stopped, brow furrowing. "Who is?"

Eames was still reading from the file in her hands. "Deputy Chief Johnson. From LAPD Major Crimes."

That caught his attention, she could tell. "I'm not sure there's any such thing," he said, twisting a pen between his fingers.

Eames blinked. "As a major crime?"

"As _ex_ -CIA."

"Ah." She closed the folder. "Listen, it's late, and I should pack . . ."

"Oh. Right. Maybe we could . . ." His voice dropping, he glanced around the squad room. "No, you're right - it's late, and you need to -"

"Bobby," she said quietly, but it was a little too late to erase the look on his face.

He shook his head as if breaking himself out of a trance, and said, "No, you go on and pack. Remember this is the land of - movie stars, fashion models . . ."

"Great," she said. Had he been any other man, she'd have spent the rest of the night wondering what he meant by cautioning her to pack for fashion models . . . Oh, who was she kidding. She would anyway.

* * *

The car was quiet. Too quiet. And his boss didn't usually bite her nails on the way to execute a search warrant. "Chief," he said, and immediately felt like an idiot, because they were alone in the car. But old habits died hard.

She gave him a look out of the side of her eye, but said nothing.

Gabriel had wondered, occasionally, casually, how exactly anyone ever went about having an affair with a female boss. Obviously it _happened_ , he had just never been able to envision _how_. If an ethical boss would never make a move on a subordinate because of the power issues, and a male subordinate would never make a move on his female boss because he knew that was an excellent way to get landed with a sexual harassment suit and demoted to Parking Enforcement . . .

Except they'd had an unexpectedly rough and, in retrospect, ridiculous takedown in Brentwood where the guy had decided that the best possible way to evade arrest was to start swiping at people with the cigarette lighter from his car. The Chief had actually agreed to be seen at the ER, probably only because the guy had jabbed her with the red-hot circle of metal in a place she had no intention of flashing on the street. What would have been smart was if he'd remembered that late that night when she disappeared into the ladies' room for way too long and he got elected to go tell her that their long-awaited ballistics report had arrived.

To his mind there was nothing so wrong with barging into the ladies' room late at night when he knew she was the only one there - after giving a warning shout - because women used stalls and everything was neatly locked behind metal doors the way it should be. Which was how - with his perfunctory call of "Chief?", after which he'd waited not at all before pushing the door open - he ended up walking in on his boss standing in front of a mirror at the sinks with her top mostly off and no bra in evidence, a Q-tip in her hand, staring at him with eyes so wide it must have hurt.

"Oh my God, Chief," he'd stammered, immediately shading his eyes with one hand so that all he could see was the tiled floor, at the same time that she shrieked his name so loudly that the guys back in the murder room had to be peeing themselves with laughter.

"I am so sorry," he'd started, "I just expected you to be, you know, in a stall, or . . ." Because it had been a few moments he'd looked up again, but she'd had one side of her tank top kind of stuck over her head and she'd apparently been reluctant to pull it over the still-exposed wound on the lower curve of her left breast, because said breast was, well, still exposed. "Sorry!" he said again, returning his eyes to the floor. "It's just, the ballistics are back . . ."

"For heaven's sake, Sergeant . . ." Her tone was unreadable. He'd risked a quick glance and seen that she was leaning into the mirror, hastily applying cream to the ugly burn.

He'd directed his eyes back to the floor but said, "It's not that gross or anything, Chief."

"Thank you, Sergeant, I'm so relieved to hear that." The scathing wryness in her tone could have taken the paint off the walls, but he swallowed and persevered.

"Do you, um, need any help? Or, I mean -" He'd gestured lamely. "I could get somebody."

"That won't be necessary," she'd said, but then he heard the sound of paper flapping and could practically _feel_ her about to curse.

"Um . . ."

"Oh, open it!" A still-wrapped Band-Aid with the peel-apart section ripped off had been thrust into his line of vision, and he'd taken it from her and carefully picked the wrapper open. She'd thanked him with something approaching actual, normal gratitude in her voice, and he'd risked sneaking another look while she smoothed the Band-Aid over the burn. Long enough to be pretty confident that a Chief with very nice breasts was, indeed, an inconvenient thing.

Out of some kind of politeness he'd stood there waiting while she fixed her shirt (still not wearing a bra though, which was an image he hadn't really needed), and then he'd gone over to the sinks and helped her gather the cream and a box of Q-tips back into her bag, and when he'd asked her if it hurt, his hand brushed her arm and the side of her breast in a way that he really, really wouldn't have dared on purpose. And eventually, it turned out that once you had seen your boss's naked breasts - and if she didn't object, of course - then you kind of might as well have sex with her. Or at least that was the way it seemed to happen.

It turned out that actually having sex with his boss did not make anything less awkward. Go figure.

"Brenda?" he tried again in the silence of the car. She didn't look at him this time. "You are really weirded out about these people from New York coming, aren't you?"

"I am not 'weirded out,'" she mumbled around her fingernail. "I just wonder how many other cities are going to think they can just waltz in and take over cases whenever they want. Who's next? Fargo?"

"I don't think they're coming to take over . . ."

"Don't count on it," she said, fingernail still pressed between her teeth. "Those New Yorkers are grabby."

He did, at least, manage to remember that laughing at his boss - at his boss, in particular - was a much worse idea than getting caught accidentally staring at her breasts. The latter had been eventually forgiven, sometime around the moment when he was kneeling on her bed holding them in his hands and carefully avoiding the bandaged burn mark. Laughing at her tended to lead to a grudge that could really stick.

"Well," he said, "then let's solve this thing."

* * *

It took her long enough to open her door that he was prepared to apologize for waking her up, but then when she did appear she was still in her jeans and had a cup of tea in her hand. "Oh," he said. "You’re still up."

"Did you think I wouldn’t be?"

"Well - no."

Eames had a _look_ on her face as she backed up and let him into her apartment, but he had long ago given up trying to catalogue her looks. Not because he couldn't, but because they tended to reveal that she was looking right through him, and he found that uncomfortable.

"All packed?" he asked with a certain amount of false jollity.

"Mmm-hmm," she said as she locked the door behind them. "You?"

"Yup." He'd left the bag in the car, not wanting to presume.

"Remember all the essentials?"

He smiled at her back as she went to get him a cup of whatever she was drinking. "What are the essentials?"

She shrugged. "Underwear? Badge?"

He sat down on the end of the couch. "Yeah, I have the essentials."

"Good." Eames sat down next to him, closer than necessary, and handed him the second cup she'd carried out. "It's herbal."

"Oh good." He took it reflexively. The tea was bright pink. "Wouldn't want to keep me awake."

She smirked at him over the top of her cup, but again he chose to ignore it.

"So, I was thinking," he said, as Eames drew her feet up under her so that her knees rested against his leg. "Whenever we finish with the case, we'll be owed overtime. Could maybe spend a couple extra days in Santa Barbara or someplace."

For a moment she stared at him with her mouth open; when she finally managed to say something, it was, "Really?"

He shrugged. "If you want. Could be fun."

"I just - wow." She set her tea cup aside and reached for his hand, sliding her fingers tentatively over it. "That's a nice idea."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Her eyes narrowed. "Did you already make a reservation somewhere?"

"How could I? We don't know how long we'll be helping ex-CIA Chief Johnson."

His look apparently convinced her, because she laughed. "Okay. Let's do it - when we're done with the case."

"Good." Looking down between them, he carefully reached out one hand and rested it on her knee. They both sat very still for a long while.

"The flight is early tomorrow," Eames finally said softly. "You staying?"

He had to look up then and meet her eyes. "If you don't -"

She cut him off with a shake of her head. "Come on."

He waited while she got to her feet, then grabbed hold of her hand. For a moment she paused, looking down at him, and then she came closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. Sitting on her couch he was almost tall enough that she didn't have to bend.

Goren turned his face into her chest and breathed her clean fabric softener smell until it started to make him sleepy. "Okay," he announced to no one in particular.

* * *

No new leads. Absolutely nothing. She was still pissed off in the morning, and the fact that Kitty had eaten half a crepe myrtle during the night and horked it back onto the bedroom floor didn't help. And she was pissed because she knew it was out of self-preservation that David had dropped her off so fast and not come in. Coward.

* * *

He held Eames's hand on the plane. After all, she might have been nervous about the turbulence. She was his partner; it was his job to look after her. The flight attendant gave him an indulgent look when Eames turned to whisper in his ear and it made him shiver.

* * *

Gabriel barely managed to conceal his grin - though he did better than the rest of the squad - when Brenda marched out of her office as if she were throwing wide the doors of Tara for a barbecue. "We are just _so_ glad y'all are here to help us out with our case," she gushed so convincingly that the emphasis she threw on "our" was almost subtle.

From the looks of him, the big guy didn't miss it.

The two New Yorkers followed Brenda back to her office. He should have been righteously angry on her behalf, or something, when he heard the petite blonde woman whisper to her partner, "Looks like there's gonna be a party at Twelve Oaks tonight" - but it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

After all, they all knew she was doing it on purpose.

As if she could both hear Detective Eames from across the room and his thoughts from inside his mind, Brenda seemed to be glaring at him through the window of her office.

* * *

"Interesting," was all Goren said when they were finally alone - temporarily abandoned at the coffee cart by their shadow/chauffeur, Lieutenant Tao.

"Interesting?" Eames echoed, watching Tao pace the sidewalk while talking intently into his cell phone. "That squad is like a Benetton ad for insanity."

"But it seems to work for them . . ." Goren started, and from the tone of his voice and the way he stared at Tao, she could tell the wheels were turning. "Lieutenant Tao!" he called, striding over to intercept the other man.

Of course, if these people were a little . . . atypical, she should have guessed her partner would fit right in.

* * *

Detective Goren's eyes met hers, and it was easy to get carried away. "Detective," she said, rising from her chair and leaning over the table, already diving into the box between them, "didn't the mechanic from Brooklyn say -"

"And who better to get her hands on some nice, clean firearms -" Goren picked up, one hand pointing at her in his excitement.

"Oh my God." Brenda's hands shook as she flipped through folders until she had the one she wanted. "The hostess at the sushi bar. _She's_ the ex-wife."

"Gotta be," Goren agreed.

Brenda looked between Goren and his partner, who was quiet, but whose wide eyes clearly showed she had followed their leap. "Detectives," she said, "anybody hungry?"

"I love sashimi," said Detective Eames.

* * *

Goren knew how to give respect when it was due - and he was more than willing to admit that this beflowered Southern belle was a much, much crazier driver than he was. It was actually pretty impressive. Especially when she put on the flashers and nearly went through the plate-glass window of an In-n-Out.

"Chief, that's a burger joint, not a _suggestion_!" Sergeant Gabriel yelled nervously from beside Goren.

He could have sworn he heard Eames snickering in the front.

* * *

Four heavies standing guard around Pietrovsky's hideout. She'd sent most of the squad around the sides - Lieutenant Flynn was at her back, with Detectives Goren and Eames fanning out to the right. One gunshot. She heard Detective Sanchez shouting at someone to stop, get down - "Got him!" So three left.

A body fleeing around the left - the Ukrainian from the sushi bar, which was weird enough that she'd pretty much expected this. Lieutenant Flynn taking him down. Two to go.

"Chief!"

Flynn's alarmed face told her to turn, but it almost wasn't soon enough. She winced at the gunshot, expecting to feel the telltale burn, but the guy that had snuck up behind her dropped to the grass instead. Brenda twisted and looked over her shoulder to see Detective Eames slowly lowering her gun. "Your collar, Chief Johnson," the other woman said, her voice steady.

Brenda took a deep breath. "Thank you, Detective," she said, already going for her cuffs. "He shouldn't have been able to get the drop on me -"

Eames was motioning her partner away, kneeling at the side of the fallen man, kicking his gun out of range. "Pulse," she said.

Brenda glanced over as she cuffed him - Lieutenant Flynn was already on the radio, summoning the ambulance. "One left," she said.

Detective Eames shook her head. "This isn't one of the guys we saw when we pulled up. This is a fifth."

The two women's eyes met, and as one they leaped to their feet, guns trained on the street behind the rest of the squad.

Brenda glanced over at the other woman. Eames gave her a quick side-eye and said, "If I'd known you were inviting us to a shootout I'd have brought better shoes."

"Long as you brought the good gun," Brenda muttered.

* * *

Watching her partner and Chief Johnson tag-team Pietrovsky was like watching Pinter the way it was meant to be played. Eames wasn't even remotely surprised when the rest of the Major Crimes Division showed up in the electronics room with popcorn to watch the show. Interrogation as entertainment. "Welcome to LA," she murmured to herself.

Lieutenant Provenza grinned and offered her the popcorn.

* * *

Gabriel stepped gingerly around the - whatever it was, before sharing, "Um, there's this pile of - wet - green stuff -"

Brenda rolled her eyes in exasperation and shouted, "Kitty! Bad Kitty! Where are you?" As she swung around the corner into the hall she yelled over her shoulder, "I swear, someday he's going to eat something poisonous . . ."

"If the cat eats plants, why would you keep poisonous ones in the house?"

"I _don't_ ," Brenda said, bent in half as she prowled the house looking for the cat. "But someday - _there_ you are." She leaned behind a chair and straightened up with the cat clutched in her arms. "Did you eat more of the myrtle? You did. You did."

"Are you sure whatever she ate isn't poisonous?"

"Lieutenant Tao looked it up on the internet." Inexplicably, Brenda passed him the cat. "Hang onto him while I clean it up, would you?"

"Um - okay." Lucky thing he'd already taken off his jacket - as it was his shirt was going to be an inch deep in cat hair. Kitty wriggled as he tried to hold on to her, and finally he let her down and watched her wander toward the kitchen. "So, Goren and Eames took off?"

"Detective Eames said they were driving somewhere up the coast." Brenda tossed the paper towels she'd been using to clean up Kitty's regurgitated plant snack and paused to wipe her hair out of her face. "I think they're having an affair."

That caught him off guard. "Really? He's so -"

"I know." Brenda shrugged. "What can I say, it's a sixth sense." She came closer to him, close enough to touch without even reaching, but didn't touch him. "But they're out of our turf, and for that, I am very thankful."

"I thought they were fine." He knew what he was supposed to do now, but he enjoyed holding out for a moment. "And Eames did keep you from getting shot."

"Yes, she did." Brenda threw him a glare that was almost a sulk, and he wisely bit back his laugh.

"Is it safe to be in the house tonight?" he asked, closing the distance between them and wrapping his arms around her waist.

Brenda flattened her hands on his chest and raised her eyebrows at him. "As long as Kitty doesn't throw up crepe myrtle on your shoes."

"Remind me to sleep with them on." He bent forward and kissed her, still slightly awed by the way she melted against his body. "You know," he murmured against her lips, "Detective Goren must get one hell of a crick in the neck."

"Please stop talking about Detective Goren right now," she replied.

"You're the boss."

She pinched him, but wouldn't let him back away.

* * *

The oceanside spa with the dramatic view of the mountains behind was so beautiful that as soon as she saw it, Eames said, "Oh my God - you didn't ask Chief Johnson for a recommendation, did you?"

Her partner laughed, and she felt the warmth of his hand briefly at the small of her back. "No, I asked the bartender at the sushi place while you were cuffing the ex-wife."

"Seriously?"

He grinned.

Eames shook her head. "A sushi restaurant bartender has been _here_?"

"Lot of big tippers in LA." Goren nudged her forward. "Come on. We'll be late for dinner."

"Seriously," she said again as he took her bag from her hand. "This is -"

"Yeah. Come on."

The dinner was incredible. The view of crashing waves that didn't smell like the Hudson, with the stars popping out to remind them that sunset was the other way on this coast, was incredible. The wine was incredible enough that the screeching of birds overhead set her giggling, remembering how Chief Johnson had characterized "that seagull thing your partner does with his head. Really, it's like we're on the beach and he thinks I might drop my sandwich."

Off his quizzical look, she just smiled and held up her glass.

They had a suite of rooms in the resort, which was - well, sweet. And luxurious, if unnecessary. She hadn't had so much wine that she didn't know exactly what she was doing. When he followed her out onto the balcony, she opened her arms wide to take in the view, then shook her head and said softly, "Bobby."

He was close enough behind her that she could feel his warmth on her back. "Do we need to talk about it," he asked, "or -"

She shook her head again, harder this time, and turned to face him. "What could there possibly be to say," she said, "besides . . ." Leaning back against the railing, she threw her arms wide again, palms tilting back toward the ocean.

"Yeah, I guess that really does say it all." He slid his hands onto her hips, then around to her lower back. "Here's to the horizon."

"Yes," she agreed, as he lowered his head and kissed her. Her partner. She rubbed her fingertips through his hair and felt him pull her closer until he had practically lifted her from the ground. Just when she had gotten used to his rhythm - the pressure of his lips, the pulsing of his body against her - he broke away, dragging his mouth to her throat instead, and two long fingers slipped under the strap of her dress.

"I like this, by the way," he said against her skin. "I didn't say before."

"I think -" She'd been planning to say something flirty about taking it off - the dress - but ended up just breathing against his shirt.

"Yes?"

His fingers were exploring the indentation at the base of her spine, and it took real work to concentrate on words instead of that. "Inside?"

"Yes." He backed through the sliding glass door, pulling her along with him, and somehow together they managed to end up in one of the bedrooms with him sitting on the bed, her nearly straddling him, his mouth on her collarbone. A team effort.

"Bobby," she said again, staring at the top of his head as he unzipped her dress. Long arms.

He smiled up and her and said, "Yeah. We're gonna be good at this."

They were.


End file.
